


A Little More or a Little Less Hope

by klahiie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Superlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, superlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klahiie/pseuds/klahiie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 months after Sherlock's death, John gets pulled back into the consulting world with a young girl, Natalie Disher. Not long after John finds out Sherlock is alive, but when unexplainable murders begin popping up all around London -Sherlock being one of them- an Angel comes and bears word they'll meet the Winchesters and aid them in solving the case. Based on an RP between a friend of mine -which is still going. </p>
<p>It has an original character -who isn't really important. So I apologize for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

It was cold in London, the water from the rain threatening to freeze on the sidewalks and roads, but that didn't slow the busy people down a bit. Outside, the world was just as it had always been. The only difference between the world now than it had been five months earlier was the rumor bustling. The people spreading false word of corruption and lies. Worse than it was before, because now John saw it all. He was painfully aware that everyone down there lied, just as Sherlock had the day he stepped off of that rooftop, plummeting to the ground like a fallen angel. That was why he stayed inside.

Ever since the fall, John had rarely left the flat to do no more than visit one of the many pubs. The streets chattered in the cold about the fake that Sherlock was, and that the fate he got was what he deserved. For the first two months John was able to ignore it long enough to get so wasted he didn't remember how he ended up laying in Sherlock's chair in the morning.

After Sherlock's death, John had decided it would be good to pick up counseling again, but it didn't feel right. Talking to her about his feelings on the matter...it didn't feel right not having someone to rebuke or argue with him. In fact, it was the amount of agreeing she did with him that made him skip his sessions and instead hit the pub. At least there the bottle wouldn't comment. He'd feel just like he had when he spilled his guts to the detective only to find out he wasn't listening.

It worked for a while. Most of the time it had been normal bar chatter. Occasionally a patron would start ranting and Sherlock's name would pop up, but John ignored it, ordering another drink. Thicker, heavier. Until one day a group of three or four men came in. They didn't acknowledge John's presence, just like everyone else there besides the bar tender who stood behind the bar with sad, sympathetic eyes as he poured the ex-consulting detective's assistant another glass of poison. Of course, not many people recognized him with his usually clean shaven face gone astray with stubble. His eyes deep and tired looking. He wore a flannel button up plaid shirt instead of his normal jumper and a pair of dark, worn out jeans.

He hit another drink as the men beside him started chanting, singing in a drunken slur of poorly enunciated words. The beat catchy at first until the second line when the words started to sink in. "Sherlock Holmes all skin and bones, the defective detective without a home! Jump from a hospital, god what a pity! He almost done crushed that cute little kitty!" John put his drink down and turned in his stool, looking back at the drunks, his forehead crinkling.

There was a cheer from the other side of the bar, prompting the drunk who began the song to turn and raise his hand, shouting for everyone to join in. Then in a large, uncoordinated chorus they repeated the song over again. John felt the knot in his throat tighten, his teeth grinding as they carried on to the next verse. "Sherlock Holmes worst detective ever known! Had to fake all his cases and thought no one would know! There wasn't much love lost, between him and our man, besides all of that money we won't ever see again!"

They broke out into a chorus of cheers, applauding the boisterous insults that churned John's stomach. He'd heard insults and jokes and demoralizing songs before in the military, but it was never as disgusting as this. Pushing himself to his feet he stumbled, his blood boiling in his veins. He wasn't fully aware of what was happening until he grabbed the head of the group by the front of the shirt and rammed his fist into his nose. The man staggered back, shocked by what had happened, not expecting to be hit. Especially not by the quiet man he'd seen multiple times in the pub.

John stumbled, his knees hitting the bar stool as he lost his balance. Reaching forward, he grabbed the man by the shirt again and clubbed him, his vision swirling from the anger and intoxication. He didn't know how long he'd been wailing on this man before a foreign hand came out of nowhere, knocking him backwards and to the floor. Everyone had gathered around so quickly, like the walls of a condemned house collapsing in on him. The talking was inaudible as everyone had their own thing to say, ranging from 'who is that' to 'is that a Sherlock supporter?'

John struggled to get to his feet when a pair of hands grabbed him, hoisting him up. For a moment he thought it was a patron urging the fight on, but as he took a step to continue the same hand pulled him to a stop. In a bout of confusion and anger he turned only to see the familiar and disappointed expression of his flat mates former 'employer', Greg Lestrade.

Without much hesitation John hung his head and allowed the inspector to escort him from the bar to the squad car outside. That was the third and last bar he was banned from. At least temporarily.

John sat in his chair, staring out the window at the gray London sky. He didn't want to leave the flat. He hadn't for a long while. He was tired of hearing them talk. Tired of hearing the gossip of London, spray insult into the air like a faulty bathroom spray, using this 'new scent' as a blanket to cover the shit that was already there. The people didn't care that Sherlock was dead or that he hadn't been a fake. The people didn't care to look at the obvious fact that it would have been damn near impossible, even for Sherlock to have faked his abilities by paying off everyone and anyone to believe his tricks, yet keep everyone so baffled.

Lestrade, Anderson, Molly, Donovan...all of them had seen it with their eyes, not just during cases but through insults, office parties on holidays, get togethers. Sherlock had gone out of his way to be a pompous jackass and spouted all sorts of secrets and juicy little details about all of them that they'd never in a million years tell another living soul. In mere seconds Sherlock had dug up all of those dark secrets and exposed them. Sherlock wasn't a fake, yet here they and the rest of London were, singing smack tunes about his fraudulence.

He grimaced, swallowing the last of his whiskey with a sour expression. Anyone will jump at the chance to parade around in a new fad. News reporters, 5 months later were still talking about it. Groups of previous fans celebrated anniversaries of his death. His headstone had to be repaired after some petty bastard etched 'Rache' into it.

Things were calming down, but not fast enough. Behind him there was a gentle knock on the door before it opened slowly. "Yoohoo," Mrs. Hudson called gently, hesitant in disturbing him. "John, I brought you some tea and breakfast." She smiled, walking in. "I'll just leaved it in the kitchen." She made her way to the dining room only to stop when she saw that the meal she'd made for him the night before sat untouched. She stared at it for a long time, her bottom lip trembling a bit before putting the tray down, grabbing the old one. "You know dear, it's not healthy not to eat." She commented, looking around for the garbage. There was no lining in the trash can. Not since she'd taken the trash the day before.

"I'm not hungry." He replied in a matter of fact tone.

"No but you sure are thirsty." She attempted to lighten the mood as she grabbed a new bag, lining the trash before throwing out the food from the night before. She stopped when her eyes landed on three empty bottles of whiskey by the trash can. "Three bottles in a week! John if you keep that up you won't have a liver by the time you're fifty! And trust me, you'll need all the liver you can get." She forced a giggle as she walked back out into the living room. He didn't move, he just sat there, staring out the window. The flat seemed cold and barren ever since she'd packed up all of Sherlock's things. Her forced smile faded as she looked around, understanding how the ex army doctor felt. She was about to remind him of the rent being due by next week but decided to keep her mouth closed.

Ever since Sherlock had passed only half of the rent was getting paid up until 3 months ago when all of his money started going for booze. She'd been giving him leeway, letting him go without paying rent, but that could only last so long. After all she had land taxes and property insurance to pay off and she couldn't do it out of pocket. Carefully she chewed her lip, her hands wringing in front of her. She knew John couldn't afford the place on his own, but she couldn't just kick him out.

Downstairs the sound of the door interrupted her thoughts. Turning she made her way out, leaving John to sit alone. He was thankful for that. He expected her to mention rent again. He wanted to pay but he just...didn't want to. Not when he didn't have any, and he understood the extents Mrs. Hudson was going to ignore his lack of payment graciously, but for some reason, he just didn't care. He inhaled, sighing deeply. The smell of the food on the table making his stomach churn a bit -from hunger or queasiness he couldn't quite tell. Mrs. Hudson's voice reached his ears as she greeted whoever it was. He didn't move but his focus shifted from the sky to whatever conversation was being held downstairs.

"So you're the one in need of a flat share yes?" Mrs. Hudson greeted in an almost singsong voice.

"Yes ma'am, at least temporarily." Another woman's voice. It peaked his interest a bit, not by much though. Another woman in the building would be welcome, perhaps for him to take his mind off things. Unless she was one of those Sherlock haters, then there would be another reason not to leave the flat.

"Wonderful. I must admit I was rather startled by your letter of recommendation. You don't get too many of those." She made her way up the steps. John didn't move, figuring that Mrs. Hudson would take the girl straight to an empty flat, perhaps the basement one would finally be lent out. "This one is occupied, but I was told to show you this one." The door to the flat opened, causing John's eyes to close. Dammit, she'd gone ahead and found him a roommate without his consultation. "John dear, this is our new tenant. She's looking to flat share, figured you could use help on the bills." John didn't move. Reaching up he lightly pinched the bridge of his nose, replying with nothing more than a grunt.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too." The woman said gruffly.

"I'm really sorry you came all this way but I don't need a flat mate." He turned, looking at her then stopped. She was attractive, pale as paper though and tired looking. She had red hair that was pulled back into a ponytail and large hazel eyes. She couldn't have been more than 25. She looked clean, prim and proper, donned in a pair of dress slacks and a button up white blouse. She wore a pea-coat, her clothes dry cleaned, crisp and wrinkle free. Without saying more he turned his back on her, looking back out the window towards the sky over Sherlock's chair. Mrs. Hudson gave the red head an apologetic look, her hand clasped to her chest nervously.

"Please excuse him. He's-"

"In mourning?" The girl asked, her forehead crinkling as she looked around the flat. "I've noticed. There's a thin layer of dust on everything save for a single trudged pathway from the bedroom, to the bathroom to the chair. Minus the old path that lead to the door. My guesses he stopped leaving the flat about 3 months ago?" She looked down at her feet. "Since then the only pathway he walks is from the bedroom to the bathroom to his chair. Everything else hasn't been disturbed in say...4 months and 20 days?" Her nose crinkled, her hands rubbing together as she made an estimate. Mrs. Hudson looked at her shocked, but nodded.

"Not since-"

"You packed away Mr. Holmes' belongings." She nodded, finishing for her. "Nothing is disturbed and everything is still here, packed and left right where you put them save for..." She trailed off, her eyes landing on a couple boxes in the kitchen. They narrowed as she made her way over to the box and looked down at it. John's eyes followed her through the flat, an expression of wonder on his face as she crouched beside the box. "This box has been opened in less than that time." She took a pen out of her pocket and opened the flap, noting the dust streaks where John's fingers had been. "My guesses are you tried to rid of it but seeing the contents you couldn't bring yourself to?" She looked up at John, her red bangs falling into her face. All he could do was stare at her, his jaw slack, stunned at the string of deductions she'd gone through. He hadn't heard deductions like that since...well...since Sherlock. It sent a quick shot of pain through his heart. She had been right, just like Sherlock would have been, down to the very detail.

"I know how it is Mr. Watson, losing a lover." She stood again, fidgeting, lifting one foot then another, rubbing her hands off on her pants idly, then rubbing the spots on her pants where she wiped her hands off. "You pray for them to come back. You pray for months and by the time the third month rolls around you've lost all hope." her forehead crinkled a bit as she spoke. John felt a knot in his throat that he tried to swallow down, adverting his eyes. "But still your heart jumps at every cough, every moan or whine. Every coat you see reminds you of them, or every pale skinned boy with a head of luscious black curls. Your heart jumps and then reality sinks in that they're gone and only a miracle will bring them back." She stopped, her eyes on John, noting the solemn expression on his face. "I don't believe in miracles Mr. Watson, but I hope yours comes true." His eyes shot back up to her, his lips pressed tight in a confused expression. He opened his mouth, trying to find the right words to say. His eyes closed as he cleared his throat, giving his head a quick shake.

"We weren't lovers." He said defensively, his voice soft from having spent so many months hardly talking. "He was a friend...my best friend and a flat mate. That was it." He stared at her. Those words stung almost as much as the thought that Sherlock was dead. Really dead.

She looked at him, taken aback a bit, her eyes widening. She shifted, nodding. She wasn't used to getting too many details wrong. She just hoped she hadn't offended him with her wrong guess. "O-of course, after all Mr. Holmes never really did seem like the type to fall in love did he?" She chuckled nervously. "He never really was one to choose a flatmate either, but here you are," She lifted a hand, gesturing towards him before dropping her arm again, her palm striking her thigh. "having spent a greater portion of your-" She stepped forward then froze, her eyes wide as she stared at seemingly nothing. John looked at her, his eyes narrowing curiously until she jumped back, screaming. "Spider! Oh my god spider!" She shrieked, her hands going to her face. John jumped, his eyes wide as he stared at her, the scream causing Mrs. Hudson to jump as well. "It's everywhere! It's huge it's, it's going to kill me!" She backed up against the counter, whimpering pathetically. "Oh God help me. It's staring right at me with all of it's eyes. It knows I exist!" A couple tears hit her cheeks.

Swallowing, John pushed himself to his feet, grabbing his cane that he hadn't needed for the year he'd spent with Sherlock. Not long after losing him he'd ended up needing it again, even for mundane tasks like getting around the flat. He stared at her for a second, his eyes scanning the area her eyes were glued to. In the center of the room was a tiny little arachnid, barely noticeable. It had been there for months, occasionally dropping down over by his chair. He'd meant to get rid of it but hadn't bothered to.

Now was as good a time as any he supposed. Carefully he made his way across the room, ignoring the feel of Mrs. Hudson's eyes on him as he made his way to the hysterical girl shoved up against the counter. Grabbing a glass and a paper towel he returned to the spider and carefully caught it, using the paper towel to seal it's clear prison. Going to the window he opened it and tossed it out before shutting it again. Placing the glass on the counter he made his way for his chair and sat down, placing his cane beside him.

"What are you trying to imply about Sherlock and my relationship?" He looked at her curiously. She panted, wiping at her face. He couldn't help but notice just how shaken up she seemed from the little eight legged creature. She didn't answer, instead she fished her hand inside of her pocket and pulled out a thin, white wipe. Grabbing the glass as if it were contaminated she brought it to the sink and with another wipe turned the faucet on, waiting for the water to become hot enough to send a plume of steam into the air. Without much hesitation she stuck her hands under the scalding water and grabbed the washcloth on the back of the sink. She grimaced as she put soap on it and began scrubbing the glass furiously, her hands turning a bright red from the heat.

Mrs. Hudson just watched as the red head scrubbed at it for the better part of fifteen minutes before shutting the water off. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out another wipe and began scrubbing off a spot on the relatively clean counter to place the glass to dry. Once done she turned and grabbed the broom which was tucked out of the way near the counter from one of John's half attempts to sweep the floor prior. She began sweeping a large circle, making sure no dust was left behind on the floor. Grabbing a trash bag she swept it up into a dust pan and dumped the dust into the bag.

John and Mrs. Hudson stared at her concerned as the red head went into a fit, sweeping the entire kitchen and throwing the dust into the bag before tying it off. Grabbing another bag she began dusting off the tables and counters with her disinfectant wipes she pulled from her pockets. It wasn't until John cleared his throat that she stopped, looking up. "Mm, what?" She blinked as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said, her fingers twitching around the trash bag. He didn't repeat himself, ready to shrug it off until she took a deep breath as if realizing that he had in fact asked a question. "Oh, I'm not implying anything. I was just noting that Sherlock was the type of man who didn't socialize very well." She finished cleaning off the counters, throwing the rags away before tying off the bag and placing it beside the bag full of dust from the floor. "He was more of an...I'll do this myself kind of man or so I've witnessed from my time working with him. But yet here you two were, sharing a flat together," She gave him a smile, her eyes on the clean glasses. Grabbing them she put them in the sink and ran hot water over them and proceeded to clean them the way she had with the first glass.

He couldn't help but watch her confused. She'd wasted two garbage bags in the 10 minutes she'd been standing in the flat and she was scrubbing a handful of perfectly clean glasses to within an inch of it's life. Stopping, she looked at a couple older cups and turned, throwing them away in a bag of their own. John's mouth opened, about to say something but couldn't when she continued, looking up across the room towards the bedroom. "And from the looks of it, a bed. Unless there's another room and the bed was dragged away but I doubt it. This flat was made for someone living on their own or a couple." She mused. "A bathroom, closet, bedroom, the kitchen area attached to the living area and doubling as a dining area like this. It isn't very "family" oriented in design. Not a place for children which means he trusted you and he liked you." Pulling away from the sink she placed the glasses on the counter where they had been before after scrubbing the counter-top off like the rest. "I would hope so at least, you two have been sleeping in the same bed for only lord knows how long." She added in distractedly, staring at a spot on the counter.

John stared at her, his jaw tight as he looked her over, attempting to get a proper grasp of how she behaved. How she possibly could have guessed. At first when he'd moved in he used the bedroom upstairs. But as time went on, it was true that he'd gradually moved from the upstairs then to the couch, eventually moving to Sherlock's bed. The detective himself hardly ever slept there anyway, and when he did, it was an unspoken thing not to question why they were sleeping together. Sherlock didn't bug him, so he didn't have to question his own motives for doing so.

Even after Sherlock had died John kept sleeping there. For the first few weeks the blankets held the smell of the detective. Like chemicals, laundry soap and Cinnamon. Some days he'd wake up and expect to see him sitting on the edge of the bed staring at him like he usually did. _Noting his features as he slept. REM sleep, guessing what kind of dreams your having by the movement of the eyes and limbs._ That was his excuse. Even in sleep Sherlock seemed to learn more about him than John did coming right out and asking Sherlock about his own life.

John missed his friend. He missed the arguments and the haughty attitude that was usually followed up by regretful tenderness. He missed the way Sherlock rambled on, the flat usually filled with some noise from Sherlock's idle muttering or how passively he insulted people down on the streets. Not that this girl needed to know anymore than what she had already seen by looking around the flat. He needed to change the subject -even though he was sure they'd find their way back onto it another time anyway; why damage his psyche now when he could wait?

"I take it you're looking to flatshare then?" He questioned, his head tilting to the side just a bit as he adjusted himself in his chair. "I don't believe I caught your name, miss." She looked at him a bit vacantly as if trying to understand what he'd said, then inhaled sharply.

"Ah, Natalie. Natalie Disher," She nodded, her fingers twitching by her side as she stared at him through slightly narrow eyes. "yes, I am looking to flatshare. I was referred to DI Lestrade, said you'd recently lost your best detective and his work was piling up." She fidgeted before walking over, her legs moving stiffly as she stepped from the freshly swept floor to the dirty dust covered one. "Mrs. Hudson has made me the offer of taking a different room, but I am aware of you being unable to pay for this flat by yourself." She stopped, looking at Sherlock's chair for a moment before continuing on to a wooden chair. John relaxed a bit, having not noticed that he'd reflexively gone rigid when he saw her eye the old leather chair he'd spent the past few months staring past. She stared at the wooden chair and removed her coat. Hesitantly she draped it over the seat of the chair, using it as a cover before sitting on it. "I was flown in from LA to consult on a couple cases; I'm looking to get reinstated."

John hadn't really noticed that under her coat was a messenger like bag. Possibly something to carry around a laptop. Grabbing the strap she pulled it over and off her shoulder but refused to let the bag touch the floor. Grabbing the zipper she opened it up and drew a yellow manila folder wrapped in a sheet of plastic and handed it to him. "I heard you were a doctor, not that I'll...really need it but if we're going to be consulting together," She looked down at it, her hand twitching a bit as John reached forward. Her eye twitched a bit as he grabbed it, sliding it out from between her leather glove encased fingers. "I...figured you'd want to know why I uh...keep freezing up." She forced a smile, her hands finding their place back in her lap. He stared at her for a few moments, his head tilted down so he could focus on it.

Carefully he began unwrapping the folder, pulling it out of the plastic and opening it up to look at it's contents. "I uh," She chuckled nervously. "I have a lengthy list of phobia's. Ranging from...germs to...milk, lady bugs...the works. But I'm good at what I do." She insisted. His eyes skimmed over the paper. It was a complete background of her. She was a high school graduate, went to university for 4 years, became a detective with the LA:PD and was considered one of the top detectives in the state until an incident lead to a psychiatric break down, landing her in the hospital for two years. Before her episode she only had OCD and Germaphobia, after leaving the hospital everything frightened her. She's been consulting ever since hoping to get reinstated.

John's jaw dropped a bit as he looked through her extensive list of fears, his eyes closing when he flipped the page and saw that the list continued on.

"Um...wow," He muttered, relatively shocked. "That...that is quite the list." He mused, then stopped when his eyes landed on _Enissophobia-Criticism_. He looked up at her, noting the worried expression on her face. "I don't doubt you're good at what you do," he quickly changed the subject. Closing the folder he looked at her, his forehead crinkling. "Who says we'll be consulting together?" His eyebrows furrowed, his tone reminding him of the time he'd first met Sherlock. _Who said anything about being flatmates_. Just from that, he knew he would end up with no reason not to, but that didn't me he couldn't try. "I'm out of the detective business, miss Disher." He put the folder on the stand beside him, her eyes watching it dropped like an atom bomb on a village. "Have been for five months." He leaned back again, his elbows rested on the arms of his chair. Her eyes shot back to him for a second, then at his cane. She swallowed hard, her focus seeming to be drawn off.

"You served in Afghanistan, didn't you?" She didn't look at him. He stared at her, waiting for her to blow his mind again, or to make her move and checkmate him on the bloody chess board of abnormality that his life was. "You were set free with a medical discharge after receiving a bullet wound to the left shoulder. You walked around for a long time with that cane, but the moment Sherlock waltzed into your life, you didn't need it." She looked at him, her eyes burrowing into his as if attempting to invade his thoughts. He felt his heart pick up the pace, waiting. He waited for the offer, the same offer that the detective had offered him before. The offer that made him so painfully aware of everything around him, that he longed to witness once more. She gave a little smile, turning his cold blood boiling. "Can't let you get rusty before the boss comes back can we? You're allowed to say no, but I know deep down inside of you the thrill of the adventure and solving cases is a feeling you miss dearly," She pushed herself to her feet. Walking over she stood in front of him, towering over him like that familiar figure had 5 months ago.

John swallowed, looking back up at her. The fear filled eyes he'd been staring into before were hard, determined and sure. He licked his lips subconsciously. In his mind the decision was already made, even if he didn't know it. "So tell me, Mr. Watson. Are you ready to see some carnage for old times sake?" It didn't take long as a little bit of adrenaline ran through his veins at the prospect of an adventure. He wanted to say no to her but the answer was out of his mouth before he'd even realized it.

"Oh god yes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Natalie make their way down to the mortuary to view the body of a man assumed to have died by means of a heart attack, Jacob Plesmith. For the first time John see's Natalie in action as a detective and isn't short of impressed, but Molly doesn't seem to think it's amazing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies if it's awkward, this is being written from an RP between a friend of mine and myself. It's kind of hard to convert it a bit and knowing when it's a good time to cut it off for the next chapter.

**Chapter 2**

After their settlement had been agreed upon, Natalie moved to drag her few bags up the stairs and began shuffling through them. John watched her almost idly, noting that she had almost everything separated into ten gallon baggies including a couple pairs of shoes, her tooth brush, tooth paste, shampoo, soaps, underwear, socks, shirts, pants and so on. She owned two tooth brushes, each tucked into smaller baggies, but separated none-the-less, and her socks weren't organized by pairs but by individual sock. She must have spent a fortune on baggies alone.

She bustled around, sweeping and scrubbing down everything that was dusty on her way through, humming a bit as she focused. John didn't say anything -when he had asked if she needed help putting her belongings away earlier she had ignored him- instead he just watched. She reminded him of Sherlock when he was focused on a case. Pacing back and forth, hands up as if swatting away any thoughts that would distract him.

Then standing in a flurry she whirled around, looking at John, her hair fluttering like a sheet of red behind her. Her mouth was open just a bit as if she were going to say something; she held her finger in the air, pointing at the ceiling perhaps in an attempt to keep the thought pinned to a single spot. Turning she grabbed a disinfectant wipe out of her purse and quickly dragged it over her coat before putting it on. "So I was looking at cases on the way over here in the taxi and I found a great starter." She rummaged around in her pockets for a moment before pulling out a baggy with multiple 4 by 4 inch squares of paper. "A man dropped dead, heart attack while walking down the street." She pulled out the third square and began to unfold it.

"Did...did you disassemble a newspaper just to fold up the individual sheets?" John pointed, his eyebrows knitting. She stopped, looking up at him for a moment then at the paper.

"N-no?" She lied. Turning she made her way for the door, looking at the paper. Mrs. Hudson beamed brightly, turning for the door as well, opening it for her.

"You two run on out and have fun, I'll finish bringing your luggage up Miss Disher." Natalie nodded once, her eyes on the paper as she waited, pulling out a small notebook with the details.

"Thank you kindly, Mrs. Hudson." John had to be quick, standing up as fast as he could and hobbling over to his jacket. It had been a while since he'd actually needed it. He brushed a bit of dust off of the shoulders and slid it on and up over his arms, both loving and hating the feeling of familiarity it brought to him.

He had a mini flashback of Sherlock and himself, running through the streets one night and pulled it more tightly around him. Once that was set, he walked out, leaning a bit less on his cane as he headed for the door.

"Ladies first," He said, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's happy look about her at the fact that he was doing something. "lead the way." God help him, what was he getting himself into? She smiled looking at him and straightened up, clutching both the paper and notebook in a single hand.

"Thank you, Doctor." Slipping out she made her way down the stairs, half running, her hands up so as not to touch the railing. "Oh it's been too long since I was able to go out like this!" She sang, reaching the bottom of the stairs, feeling a particular rush of giddiness. "And in London!"

Reaching into her pocket she pulled out a wipe and wrapped it around the door handle, flinging the door open, using the clean cloth to act as a barrier between her fingertips and the handle of the door. "It's a great day for a murder!" She beamed brightly, but corrected herself, biting her lip guiltily. "Or...well...for a job." She popped her head out the door and grimaced. Her shoulders squirmed as if she were trying to ignore something crawling across them. "Ugh, it's still all wet." She pulled herself back inside, looking at him. "I hope you don't mind the wet and cold, because today has plenty of both."

John chuckled, an unfamiliar action, but soothing as he stepped out of the apartment. The way she enthused about murder, her attitude...it was all so similar to Sherlock's. God, he'd missed this. But the whole thing kind of left a pit of sadness in his stomach. A feeling that mirrored homesickness and that feeling you got when you entered a familiar building to one back home but you reminded yourself that you're a hundred miles away.

"I'm used to the cold, Miss Disher. I've lived in London for a while; it's nearly always like this." He smiled coming up beside her, his cheeks hurting slightly from the workout they were getting after their longtime of no use.

"Awfully dull then." She stopped and turned to some of her luggage that hadn't yet been brought up and searched through one of the bags. She grabbed a pair of shoes, tucked neatly inside of a baggy and pulled them out. They looked exactly like the shoes she had on and slipped out of the ones she was wearing -being very careful not to let her feet touch the floor as she changed her socks as well. "My water shoes." She stated, feeling John's eyes on her. She was sure that he wasn't going to comment or ask what she was doing, but just in case he felt he needed to know the answer -she knew a lot of other people did.

Once her shoes were on and her socks were changed, she pulled out three new baggies, a large one for her shoes and two smaller ones for her dirty socks. Pulling a disinfectant wipe out she wiped off the bottom of the shoes she had just taken off and slipped them inside the bag, making sure they were placed neatly inside and sealed properly.

Grabbing a small umbrella from the side of the bag she turned and opened it, making sure the drizzle didn't hit her head as she walked out. She walked briskly, her purse draped over her shoulder. As she walked she touched the tip of ever parking meter or every post she came across, her lips moving as if she were counting. In between each touch, she'd wipe her finger off with a wipe. "Our case, 25, the man with the heart attack, 26. Rather confusing seeing how he's never had a heart problem in his life, 27. His name is Jacob Plesmith, 28, 56 years old, 29, a gem cutter for a better part of his life, 30. Hobby of his, he lives with his daughter. Apparently the worth of his wares counts up to almost 67 thousand dollars in his house alone, 32,"

John struggled to keep up with her quick pace, stumbling a bit but managing to keep his feet moving at a good pace, even with his limp. He noted every tick she had, the counting of the posts, mostly silent when she wasn't talking, but slipping in when she began. And although she didn't count every post outloud, she was still counting them. He paused for a moment as she walked past one, not touching the tip.

"You missed one." He commented. She stopped, turning and looking at him vacantly.

"What?" He flexed his fingers a bit, licking his lips as he looked at the post she'd missed.

"You...missed one." She stared at him for a long moment, then looked down at the post. She lifted her hand, as if debating on whether or not he was teasing her to purposely mess her up or not. Hesitantly she reached out and quickly tapped the top of the post with a shaky hand then turned bout face on her heel, continuing speaking as if nothing had happened.

"Not to mention the million in a special deposit box for his gems in a local bank." She began walking again. John looked after her confused, his eyebrows knitting together, but shook it off as the distance between him and her quickly began growing. He started after here again, struggling a bit to catch up with his limp, his palm digging into the handle of his cane as he attempted to close the gap between them.

"So he was murdered; I assume so, this is a case after all. Who do the police suspect, the daughter?" He asked, starting off with what he knew and trying to build on it. His heart thumped almost painfully in his chest at the fact that he was going to a crime scene for the first time in ages. It felt wonderful.

"Naturally, but again, the police normally suspect the closest person to the relative." She nodded. "Unfortunately, the police just think that this was just a regular heart attack." She stopped and turned, facing the road. She rose a hand, hailing a cab, hesitantly. As a cab pulled up she pulled a clean wipe from her purse and wiped the door handle off before pulling it open. John made his way around the cab, climbing in on the other side. He settled in and watched her as she cleaned the inside of the door and the seat off before climbing in and settling in herself, sitting rigidly in the seat. She quickly gave her directions to the cabby before pulling her purse onto her lap and removing a small baggy. She chucked both wipes into the baggy and sealed it off, tucking it back into her purse. "Oh, I ran into a lovely woman earlier, by the name of Donovan?" She looked up. "Not sure if you're acquainted with her through your endeavors with Mr. Holmes." She closed her purse and fidgeted a bit. "She's a twat. Anything she says to you is bollocks, don't listen, I swear she got her certificate from an Applejack's box." She muttered, her upper lip curling a bit. John smiled, looking at the redhead.

"I assume you haven't met Anderson yet?" He said. "You'd probably have complained about him first if you had. Or maybe he's just not worth your time to mention." His chuckled a bit, his eyes glistening but faltering when he looked over, half expecting to see Sherlock there and instead finding Miss Disher. His smile faded and he looked ahead, coughing a bit to clear his throat.

She looked at him, reading his expressions. She frowned a bit before tucking her hair behind her ear. "So, if the police think it's just a normal heart attack, I take it there isn't a crime scene. Technically at least." He spoke again after a moment of silence. "Are we headed to the mortuary then, or this poor fellow's house?" This was the most he'd talked in ages. Months at least. He almost hoped not to run into Greg or anyone else for of them being offended that he wouldn't talk to them, but would to this new player on the field -also he still felt guilty for being booted from two pubs.

Oh how he could practically hear Donovan and Anderson now.  _John always did have a thing for the freaks._

"We'll be heading to the mortuary. Hopefully they haven't begun the embalming processes. It'll be difficult to see what caused it if he's stuffed full of liquids that don't belong there." Her nose crinkled at the thought.

"Or burned." John added. She swallowed, her fingers fiddling with a fold in her shirt before she grabbed her purse again.

"Maybe I should phone Mr. Lestrade. I don't exactly have permission to go ahead and investigate. Actually I don't even think he knows I'm here. Way to jump the gun Natalie," She muttered. "Not that I'll stop if he tells me no, after all, this is a simple heart attack, no crime scene involved at all." She looked up at John, winking as she removed her phone from a ziplock baggy.

John just stared, trying to force his lips into a frown again. It didn't feel right to be happy again, not without Sherlock there. No matter how stupid it sounded in his head. Natalie was a lot like Sherlock, yes, but her differences were obvious. Her need to separate everything was contrast with Sherlock's usual clutter and disorganization. She seemed more friendly, less insulting and less pompous than Sherlock did, but in a way that they both demonstrated those traits, they blurred in the middle in certain aspects. Give Sherlock a fear of everything and he would be just like Natalie.

"If it hasn't been through embalming we can just ask Molly for help...I'm sure she'd be happy to assist us." He said, fingers moving in a reflexive twitch on his knee. It had gone away when Sherlock had come into his life but had returned shortly after his death.

"Don't feel ashamed, John." She poked as she held her cellphone up, an inch remaining between her ear and her phone; her eyes remained glued out the window. She brushed her hair out of her face, waiting for someone to answer. John's forehead crinkled, wondering what she was talking about but decided not to ask. He tried not to stare at her, remembering that it could be considered rude. He stayed silent for the rest of the ride, only taking out his phone to check for a text that wasn't there a couple of times.

It wasn't long till they got to the mortuary -just a few short turns and an unsuccessful phone call to Lestrade later. When they got there, John led the way, knowing his way around after all the time he and Sherlock had spent there on cases. Thankfully, they wouldn't be alone when they arrived, Molly was working. She seemed surprised to see him, but happy, smiling even as she dropped what she was doing.

"John, um...how are you?" She asked, looking over him with lingering sympathy. John looked her over. She had barely changed since the five months he'd last seen her. Her hair was relatively the same, only layered with more prominent bangs that she kept clipped back.

"I'm fine, Molly, really." He said, trying to dismiss the look on her face and get down to business. It would feel good to focus on something else. Thankfully, it was then that Molly had noticed the red head that had accompanied John through the door. Pale, red hair, a bit skittish -she noticed from the horribly twisted wipe in her hand.

"Who's this?" She asked, her eyes skittering over the girl. "A new date? A mortuary isn't the best place for one, John," She smiled. "Not unless you're with Sherl-" She stopped herself quickly, her smile vanishing, a hand shooting up to cover her mouth. "Sorry, that was insensitive...I was...I just...er." She looked away, feeling flustered now and tried to find a way out of it, all too aware of the red heads eyes on her. Catching the look in John's eye she tried again. "I'm Molly, Molly Hooper," She said, holding her glove covered hand to Natalie.

Natalie looked at Molly and smiled before looking down at her hand nervously. She held her hand up, her fingers twitching. Very, very slowly she reached out, her hand covering the short gap in almost 4 or 5 minutes. She shook her hand quickly before ripping her hand away and wiping at it frantically. Molly looked at her confused, feeling a bit self conscious as she stared down at her hand and then at Natalie's as she scrubbed at her palms and fingers.

"Natalie Disher, it's a pleasure to meet you." Natalie said, smiling again. "You're a very pretty woman. Now, shall we? I would like to see the body of Mr. Jacob Plesmith. If he hasn't been gutted already; even if he has I suppose it'll have to do." She carefully walked past Molly to the few bodies that were laying about. Molly didn't really have the means to reject her. She turned, following the redhead as she made her way over to one of the bodies. She looked at them for a moment before reaching up and pulling down a sheet. "Oh, I see he wasn't tucked away quite yet. Goodie." She looked up at Molly and John with a smile. "Am...I allowed free range?" Molly stuttered quietly and most likely seeing the same similarities that John did -if not the neurotic behaviour of the girl. After a couple seconds of trying and failing to get anything useful out, she just nodded, flustered and walked out of the room, muttering something about coffee.

"Are you going to get out the riding crop?" John asked, teasing lightly on impulse. Natalie's head snapped up, her eyes wide with amazement.

"They let you use riding crops?" John's lip twitched, a smile threatening to take over his face as she looked back down at the corpse. "Hm, possibly not for this job...well," She tilted her head, her lips pursed slightly. "Maybe a couple cracks if you want to go and fetch it." Walking over to a cabinet she pulled out a fresh blanket and grabbed a pair of latex gloves. Sliding them on she turned and stripped the corpse of his blanket completely. Carefully she draped the fresh one over his hips. Grabbing a pair of gloves she slipped them on. Grabbing the table she pulled herself up and swung a leg over the body, seating herself rigidly in the lap of Mr. Plesmith.

John stared at her a bit taken aback as she saddled herself in. Even Sherlock hadn't mounted a body before -from what he'd seen. Yet here was little Natalie Disher, afraid of everything, sitting rather comfortably in the lap of a man who was murdered. It was a bit awkward and he secretly hoping no one would come in and get the wrong idea.

He watched in silence as Natalie looked him over, just getting used to the feeling of watching someone do their job like she and Sherlock did. He would ask her to narrate what she was doing, but he was sure he'd get a nice little over view when she was done. So for now, he was content to just watch.

Molly came back shortly after with three cups of coffee, no sugar in any of them -although she brought a couple packets in with her just in case. Handing John his coffee, she placed Natalie's on the desk and sipped at her own. It didn't really register right away the scene that was going on -she'd seen so many weird things with Sherlock that she was a bit oblivious to most things- but eventually it clicked.

"Is she sitting on the body?" She whispered, a slight troubled expression on her face. John just nodded, looking down at his coffee before taking a sip.

"Yep." Molly nodded, her lips slightly parted as she continued to watch on. After a few moments Natalie muttered, leaning down to look the body over closely.

"No bruises, no scratches." She sat up and paused, then leaned forward, her nose just inches from the mans breast over his heart. She stretched her arm back, signaling John over. "Miss Hooper, can you locate our friends belongings here and fetch them please?" Molly looked at her not expecting a  _please,_ but nodded just the same. Putting her coffee down she moved to grab the items that Natalie requested. John watched the girl make her way to the cabinet before following the redheads orders and walking to her side.

"What have you found?" He asked, half listening to Molly trying to collect the mans things and half focusing on the exposed chest of the dead man before him. She pointed to a small, slightly bloody hole in his flesh and rubbed it.

"It's fresh, fairly fresh that is," She commented, looking at him. "The small prick of a needle, placed right over the heart. As you can tell from the slight bruising around the edges of the hole, there was some resistance and the size of the hole it wasn't hospital administered, so the thickness is a relative give away." She muttered.

"Wait, the size of the hole?" John looked at her confused. "Hospital needles come in different sizes, being anywhere between 7 gauges to 33." John replied.

"Yes, the 7 gauges being the largest at about 4.572 milometers. But this hole is 4.572 milometers large. Or would be." She explained. John looked at her confused, his jaw tight as he tried to think of how she came to the conclusion. When she didn't elucidate he shifted, licking his lips, his eyebrows furrowing.

"And...how does that make it impossible to being hospital administered?" She stopped looking at him for a moment before her own eyebrows furrowed.

"The elasticity of the skin. If a 4.572 milometer needle pierced the skin, it would stretch it. When removed the elasticity of the flesh would close the hole to almost non-existent-"

"So whatever it was had to have been bigger than a medical needle." John nodded, understanding watching as the redhead sat up and turned, accepting the mans belongings. She began looking through everything, then stopped, pricking herself on a brooch located on the breast of the shirt, causing her to yelp a bit. John jumped, looking at her as she cupped her hand gingerly, staring at the tip of her finger.

"Blood...blood John," She panicked. "Oh God, oh God his blood is in my blood I'm going to die." She panted, doubling over, staring at the barely there drop of blood forming on the tip of her finger. She groaned loudly, sounding as if she were dying a painful death. "John!" She cried. "John I'm dying!"

"Nope," John turned and quickly ran to her purse. He didn't look, just grabbed a packed of wipes from inside and rushed back. Pulling the wipe from the container he tossed it to the counter and grabbed her hand. "let's get that glove off of your hand," reaching up he attempted to grab the glove without touching her flesh as much as possible, watching her fingers twitch as she screamed dramatically.

"Oh God John I can feel the contamination coursing through my veins!"

"I know you can, I know, come on." He pulled her glove off and tossed it in the garbage before wiping her fingertip with the wipe. "See? See it's all gone, all of the gross and contamination all gone." He held her hand as she looked back at him, a couple tears running down her face. She sniffled, looking at his hands, her bottom lip quivering. He smiled, attempting to show her that it was alright. Molly stood on the other side of the room, completely confused, not sure if she should step in and help or not until the girl mumbled.

"You're touching me." John stopped and looked at where his hands were before stepping back and holding the container of wipes out to her. "Thanks." Reaching up she grabbed a few of them and wiped herself down, her face hidden by her hair as she worked in silence. After a few moments she sniffled and took off her other glove, throwing that one out as well before grabbing two new pairs. Slipping the new pair on she turned her attention back to the breast of the shirt and took the pin off, looking at it closely, climbing off of the body.

"So," John questioned, looking at it and her, putting the wipes on the counter.

"I think we may have found our murder weapon." She replied, handling it very carefully, acting as if nothing had happened.

"So, someone tampered with the brooch?" John questioned, crossing his arms, standing close before looking back at the little hole in the man's chest and the piece of jewelry in Natalie's hands. "Did they poison it?" He'd heard of such things before, coating knives of swords in poison and then stabbing to get the lethal addition of the poison along with the injury. Extra precaution.

"I believe so." She admitted, turning away from the body. "But it had to have been a poison that is potent enough to kill him, but to leave the system before anyone arrived." She walked past the doctor and past Molly to the microscopes. Molly opened her mouth to say something but stopped when she was ignored. Grabbing a couple of wipes Natalie frivolously wiped down all of the necessary parts of the instrument and everything she could be touching and put the pin under it. "If I'm correct, the body was discovered on the sidewalk just a block down from his house. It happened so suddenly with no one around him the police assumed it was a heart attack." She slammed her glove covered hand on the counter, making Molly jump. "Because of that we missed out damn window to see what kind of poison it was."

Pulling away she looked at the body for a while, her eyes narrow. She thumbed the piece of jewelry, then turned once more, running the pin again. "Poisons that are extremely perishable like this cannot remain exposed to the air so coating the pin wouldn't be enough to administer the toxin into the body. It wouldn't have had an effect, he would still be alive." John stared down at the body again, sighing and shaking his head.

"What could it have been then? Did they just...coat it and ram it into his chest?" he questioned, mostly muttering to himself at this point. The idea seemed stupid, even if it was logical. No one had been on the street and it happened quickly...that was the only thing he could think of that could have caused it.

"That would be plausible if it wasn't so stupid," she muttered. After a few moments of silence, her eyes skimming over the pin she smiled. "He put it in the pin itself." She pulled her head away from the microscope. "This pin is hollow, just drill a tiny hole in the tip, cover it with a thin layer of latex and it acts like a syringe. It's kept hidden from the air like a snake fang, the tip busts open when it breaks through the flesh and the poison is administered!" She put the pin down and stepped back, her eyes sparkling. "Yes! She does it again! God I am good." She whirled around, looking at John and Molly proudly. "I mean...at the expense of someone's life, but I got the pin solved. With the amount stored inside it wouldn't be enough to have killed him if he'd pricked himself anywhere else on the body, so whoever planted the poison into the pin must have known the victim enough to know he wears brooches and has a nasty habit of pricking himself."

John stared at her, a little smile pulling at his lips, his eyes wide. "Brilliant." He commented, just as he used to. The fact that she had dismissed his theory as stupid had no phase on him at all, not when it came from someone like Sherlock or Natalie. Especially not when he had thought so as well.

Grabbing her purse she pulled out a baggy and slipped the pin inside, marking it with a pen before ripping off the gloves and tossing them. Looking up she smiled at John. "This is now officially a murder case. Let's go rub it into the police's face shall we?"

"Of course," He replied, leaning on his cane, grabbing her wipes. He slipped them into her purse as he joined her side. "Perfect time to meet Anderson too. I'm sure he'd love to get to know you." Natalie grinned, looking down as he was careful not to touch too much of her purse. Looking at Molly she bowed her head lightly.

"It was a pleasure meeting you Miss Hooper, I hope you don't mind my straddling your corpse. It was just business." Turning she pushed the doors open and strolled out, wiping furiously at her hands. Molly didn't say anything, her coffee in her hands, her mouth hanging open as she watched the two leave dumbfounded as the door shut behind them.

"Oh John," She whispered silently. "she's not Sherlock."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Natalie head to Lestrade's office to announce that the heart attack of Jacob Plesmith is indeed a murder. But when Natalie gets ahead of herself and is pointed out on it her anxiety kicks in and things get pretty dark pretty fast.

**Chapter 3**

They stood in the cold, Natalie's hand raised for a taxi. When one arrived she underwent her usual procedure wiping the handle and the seat down thoroughly before climbing in and shutting the door behind her. John climbed in as well, watching her. Once the door was closed the car lurched forward, making its way back into traffic. She gave John a pleased smile as the car made its way to the station. Sally and Anderson were just getting into a squad car when they got there.

Looking up as they pulled in, Sally climbed back out and slammed the door shut. She made her way to the taxi, her fists bunched tight as she huddled her coat closed against the blowing wind, her nose crinkled, eyes narrow.

"Is it me of does she look rather pissed off?" Natalie questioned looking at the woman as she stomped over. Grabbing the handle, Sally ripped the door open.

"Get out of the car." She demanded.

"Gla-"

"Don't speak, just get out!" John was the first to get out, limping over to the other side of the taxi and touching Donovan's arm.

"Oi, back off her." He pulled back when the woman turned on him, glowering at him from behind a curtain of dark curls. "What has she done to you?" He questioned, cross. He was already beginning to get protective. He wouldn't have been surprised if Sally or Anderson started calling Natalie a freak like they had Sherlock. Both of them had a talent of making people hate them for their intellect, well, most likely -given what he'd seen of Miss Disher- and John wanted to prevent it as much as possible.

It had been hard to resist punching both of them before, but he was still in a bit of a mood -as he always was nowadays, and he had a feeling it would be a lot harder to resist the temptation this time. Especially with the part they played in getting everyone to hate the detective and believe he was a fraud. To be frank, he didn't even want to be looking at them, but he had to. It was part of the job.

"Oh, so it speaks." Donovan glared at him, her hand on the car. "Finally crawling out of your hole, John?" She sneered, her lips puckered. She was considerably more nasty than the last time he'd seen her. Carefully climbing out of the car -making sure not to touch the police woman or anything she touched- Natalie looked at her briefly.

"Move your hand." She muttered, attempting to keep polite. Sally looked at her and shifted, her arm outstretched in a blocking stance, keeping Natalie where she was pinned between her arm and the taxi.

"Or what?" She put her other hand on her hip in a challenging motion. Natalie stared at her for a long second, then without any extra movement beside a simple flick of the wrist, the car door swung shut, slamming two of Donovan's fingers. She gasped and screamed, pushing the redhead out of the way to get her hand freed from the metal sandwich her fingers were now the filling for.

Natalie stepped up onto the sidewalk and looked behind her, swinging her bag to her shoulder. She looked at the girl for a few moments before turning and walking. Anderson looked lost standing on the sidewalk, his mouth open, debating on helping Donovan or apprehending Natalie, but before he could say anything Natalie spoke first.

"Anderson I presume?" He looked at her shocked, then smiled slightly, looking her over for a few seconds. She was pretty, about 5'5, shorter than John with red hair, pale skin and green eyes.

"Y-yes...h-have we met?" She looked at him, her eyes skimming over him as her lips pressed together tightly. She grimaced, her nose crinkling.

"I really wish we hadn't." She pushed by him, leaving him dumbfounded outside the door as she made her way inside, having to stuff a full ziplock back of used hand-wipes in her bag, starting a new one.

John only contemplated helping Donovan for a moment before following the redhead into the building. Anderson could take care of Donovan. He moved quickly to catch up with her. He had to admit, ever since first meeting them, he couldn't help but to look at Sally's knees to see if she'd been  _scrubbing Anderson's floors_  again. And apparently she had been recently. If they were together in an affair, then this could bring them closer. Who knew.

"Lestrade's office I take it?" He asked, managing to keep up even with his limp. It was becoming easier, thankfully.

"Of course," She pulled to an abrupt stop, John almost plowing into her as she turned and looked at him. He avoided bumping into her as if he were a car following behind a motorcyclist. "Unless you want to hit the coffee station first." She offered, but closed her eyes as if suddenly remembering something. John looked at her concerned as she took a deep breath, her hands shaking slightly. His eyebrows furrowed as her teeth pinched her bottom lip. "Actually, let's just...go see him so we can get back to the flat and piece together this information, shall we?" She forced a smile before turning.

She forced her shaking legs to move, carrying her to Lestrade's office where he sat behind his desk. She didn't bother knocking. Pushing the door open she walked in and smiled, although it seemed a bit forced. "Mr. Lestrade, it's a pleasure to meet you and I am glad to tell you that that heart attack that you thought Jacob Plesmith had was in fact a murder and I've already figured out the murder weapon I am requesting a warrant to go speak to the mans daughter." She blurted, standing on the other side of his desk. He looked at her, his mouth hanging open in confusion before looking at John.

"John? What the- who the hell are you? What...I..." he stuttered before stopping, his forehead crinkled. "What?"

It was John who stepped forward to ease the DI's confusion. He was still a bit hazy on the matter himself, but he had been there since the beginning of it all. It was only fair that he explain what it was he understood about their situation. Just seeing John out of the flat had to have been a shock in itself, but suddenly someone barging in with John and blurting off details of a case had to have been a complete electrical storm.

"Greg, um..." He turned looking at the girl for a moment before turning back to the DI. "This is Natalie Disher. She's my new flatmate and a consultant," he said before turning to face Natalie completely now. "That's...right isn't it?" He questioned, waiting for confirmation. "This is all moving incredibly fast." He ran his hand through his hair. Greg stared at John, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide as the doctor spoke.

"John," He sat up straight, still trying to let his mind play catch up with the rest of what was going on. The redheads burst and John's introduction. He turned looking at Natalie. "You...and Miss Disher? I...wait," He stopped, as if suddenly the clarification hit. "you're the girl I got the message about." He turned his chair grabbing a manila folder and opening it to look at the contents inside. "The uh...anonymous referral." he muttered. Natalie looked at him then at John concerned, then nodded.

"Right, I'm...sorry this is moving too fast." She shifted, taking a deep breath. John noted something off about her but what it was he didn't know. Fishing through her bag she pulled her phone out of a baggy and took it out. "We've only been out for a couple of hours, this..." She stopped, staring blankly across the room before turning back to Lestrade. Her eyes flickered back and forth, a look John had seen Sherlock do a few times when he was back tracking everything that was going on; possibly she'd lost her place in the conversation. "Yes," She turned back to Lestrade. "I am Natalie Disher, consultant with the LA Police department. I'm here working on a few cases to prove my eligibility for reinstatement." Lestrade looked up at her as she spoke, his eyebrows raised as he held her folder and nodded.

"Yeah I just...you look different in your ID image a bit." He replied, putting the folder on the table to show John the image. Natalie was a lovely woman, pale with red hair as she had now and her hazel eyes. But she was chunkier back then, fuller, rounder face. Possibly a photo of her in her early 20's. She looked happy, lively. Not at all like she looked now. Meek, shy, thin. Still beautiful, but older. More mature. "And I wasn't expecting you to barge in here and...start demanding things." He stared at her. She bit her lip, looking down feeling self conscious now. "What was this about murder cases?" He looked from her to John curiously, still confused.

"She's talking about the death of Jacob Plesmith," John replied leaning on his cane a bit heavier than before. "she found evidence that it was a murder, not just a heart attack."

"Oh, uh...right. So what makes you think that it's a murder?" Lestrade questioned, resting his arms on the desk, looking at her. She seemed a bit off put, hanging back behind John.

"Well, for starters," She spoke but with less confidence than she had when she'd entered the room. "a 54 year old man who has never had a heart problem in his life suddenly drops dead of a heart attack. He was a gem cutter with over a million dollars worth of revenue that would be given to his daughter if he were to die." She began explaining, speaking quickly.

"So it was the daughter that killed him?" Lestrade offered, cocking an eyebrow. She shook her head.

"Not that I'm aware of. You see, we went to the mortuary to see the body-"

"Without my ok." Lestrade interrupted.

"It wasn't a murder case anyone with any jurisdiction could go in and see the body because it was just a body and not evidence, I'm continuing. Anyway there was no poison located in the system, but upon further examination of the body there was a pin prick located on his left breast. Looking through his belongings we spotted he had been wearing brooch -which I pricked myself on and proceeded to panic because I was poked with the jewelry that had once pierced the flesh of a dead man. The brooch was hollow, perfect for a poison to be administered very close to the heart. A small hole was drilled in the tip and covered with a latex that would break once it broke through the flesh. It took a bit to get to the heart, my guesses 15 minutes, then he dropped dead. When the report was filed they chalked it off as a heart attack and the poison was out of the system in 24 hours." She paused to take a breath. "We have the murder weapon and judging by the use of it the person must have been a friend or relative who knows of his habits for pricking himself so if you please issue us a warrant or request to interview the daughter and give us any information regarding his job or personal life and business partners. Please give it to John, I'll be right back." She whirled around, ripping the door open and running out, making her way to the bathroom.

Lestrade and John stared off after her, both shocked. They stood in silence for a few moments, John turning to look back at Lestrade as the DI looked down at the file infront of him, wringing his fingers in silence before speaking up.

"I...really wasn't aware that anyone could be...similar...so..." He closed his eyes, his tongue dragging across his lips as his mouth hung open. "What do you think of her so far? I'm a bit weirded out at everything that is occurring today, so I'll let you give me your opinion." He signaled for John to sit and got up, pouring him some coffee. John sat down gratefully, tired from having to keep up with his new companion.

"I think she's an interesting woman," He said first, taking the coffee that Lestrade offered him. "Amazingly similar, like you said...it's a bit...frightening at times but..." He paused looking at his coffee while the DI stared at him. It had been so long since he'd talked to Greg...it was strange and nice to be talking so calmly with him after all of these months of nothing but radio silence. "I like her...it feels good to have someone so like  _him_  around." Lestrade nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee before sitting down.

"I'm glad she showed up when she did. I was afraid I'd be catching the phone call from Mrs. Hudson anyway that you'd be found dead in that flat." He leaned forward looking at him. "I'm not sure how I feel about having her out there on the streets though, as long as she keeps her impulses down and keeps people from seeing she's anything like Sherlock then the city will be peaceful." He frowned a bit, shaking his head. "The entire city's carrying on like Sherlock was a plague or a bloody tsunami. I don't know whether he was faking it or not and quite frankly, I don't care. The city's going nuts and making a field day out of this-" Suddenly the door whipped open, causing both his and John's head to snap up as Sally barged in.

"Sir that...that..." She gritted her teeth, her hair wild as she grabbed her black and blue fingers, hitting through her teeth. " _menace._ That menace, Sherlock wannabe needs to be taken off of the streets before we have another incident!" She was screaming. "She's already slammed my fingers in her damn taxi door!"

"I'm sure you deserved it." Lestrade muttered as he took a swig of his coffee.

"I don't know," Anderson appeared behind Sally in the doorway. "perhaps we should just...let her do her job? After all she seems to know what she's doing." Both Lestrade and Sally turned, looking at him shocked. John looked up shocked as well, but he was quick to nod his head, agreeing fullheartedly.

"Really, Sally, she just wants to prove she can be reinstated. You put up with Sherlock for a long time, right? I'm sure you can put up with Miss Disher for a few months." He took a long sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter taste it left in his mouth as it left the styrofoam cup. It brought him a bit of relaxation with all the craziness that had happened over the past few hours. Having Natalie around was almost like having Sherlock back and that...that was good for him in some twisted way. Mrs. Hudson had noticed it, so had Greg, and Molly and Donovan. Having her around was good for him. Muttering, Sally glared at John, shifting her weight.

"If she's somehow in league with him. Like some...sick  _carry on after I'm dead_  thing."

"I think we should stop talking about this." Lestrade put his cup down. "Speaking of the girl, she's been gone an awful long time." He looked at the clock, idly drumming his fingers on his desk. "Unless...20 minutes isn't a long time to use the lavatory for a woman."

"I'll go and see if she's ok, if you'd like." Anderson stepped back, grabbing for the door knob. He slipped a bit, seemingly in a rush. Sally turned and looked after him as he vanished into the hall, her jaw dropping as if he'd just insulted her.

"That's not good." Lestrade muttered, sipping his coffee again. John was quick to follow after Anderson, sensing the same sense of wrong that Lestrade did.

"Thank you for the coffee," he bid as he grabbed his cane, giving the DI a little wave before pushing by Sally and made a dash down the hall after Anderson. In truth, he was a bit worried about Natalie as well...even if he hadn't known her long, when Sherlock had been gone for unexplained periods of time, nothing good ever came of it. Sometimes for Sherlock, like with the cabby, or sometimes for someone else, like this poor vegetable vendor they'd met on one case. His poor cabbages...

John shook his head, clearing it, instead trying to focus on getting to the girls lavatory.

Anderson made his way quickly to the bathroom and stood outside the door. He knocked but there was no answer. He frowned a bit, waiting for a couple of minutes before knocking again. "Miss Disher, are you alright?" He called.

"Oh fuck me." A muffled voice came through the door. Her voice quivered, causing Anderson to bite his lip. Grabbing the doorknob he attempted to open it but it was locked. Taking a step back he looked the door over as John caught up. Looking over at the doctor for a moment he nodded towards the door and took a step back. Nodding in understanding -surprised beyond belief that he was actually following orders from  _Anderson_  of all people- he stepped forward. Sherlock would probably turn in his grave if he knew.

He shook his head. No, he couldn't be thinking of graves, that would do no one any good, especially himself. Taking a deep breath he got to work, leaning against the door he knocked, beginning to talk to her.

"Miss Disher?" He waited, listening carefully to see if there was something he could hear on the other side of the door. When all he got was silence he shifted, leaning against his cane. "Miss Disher, what's the matter? You've been in there for quite a long time."

"I...I just..." She spoke. She sounded horrible, like she'd been crying. The sound of her voice made John frown, swallowing. "Oh god, John. I think I'm dying." She whimpered pitifully. "Just...everything. Everything that...oh for fucking God's sake I'm having an attack." She gasped deeply. John's eyes opened wide for a moment before pulling away from the door a bit.

Anderson returned, lightly pushing John to the side. "I'll let you go in and talk to her first, I'll probably just get in the way." He admitted. Pulling a set of keys -most likely received from a janitor- he unlocked the door, letting it swing open. Natalie was sitting in the dark on a nest of toilet paper on the toilet lid, her knees drawn to her face. Her face was hidden in her knees, clutching her cellphone for dear life, rapidly clicking the buttons to keep the light on. She rocked back and forth, muttering to herself.

"You've made an ass out of yourself. You've made an ass of yourself, everyone saw it but you, everyone hates you now, you'll never get reinstated you'll never get your job back because you're stupid stupid stupid." She inhaled deeply, sniffling a bit before repeating it all over again. "You've made an ass out of yourself-" John stared at her from the door for a moment, his heart wrenching a bit as he looked at her. This was one thing he'd never seen Sherlock do. One thing about her that was completely unique yet upsetting all the same. Watching her like this...hearing Sherlock like he did the day he died...when geniuses fell...they fell hard, didn't they?

"Hey," He walked in, kneeling down beside her not caring if the bathroom floor was probably filthy and reached out to touch Natalie's hair. "hey, no, no one here hates you, Natalie," he said quietly before pausing. "No one besides Donovan, but she doesn't like anyone whom she deems irritating." He forced a smile, carefully brushing his hand through her hair. "I mean, not even Anderson seems to hate you. Come on, calm down, it's alright." He wasn't much for personal contact much, especially after coming back from Afghanistan, but for now the least he could provide this girl with a little comfort.

Carefully he placed his hand on one of hers that was clutching her legs and ran his thumb over her knuckles softly. He wasn't going to ask her to move, not until she was calmer. There would be no point in trying; it would probably just aggravate her further. She squeaked a bit, hugging her knees tighter. She let off a strangled cry.

"Why can't I do this!" She smashed her forehead off her knees once, making John jump and lift his hands up to stop her if she made to do it again. "I can't...why can't I just be normal?" She sobbed.

"Can I help with anything?" Anderson stood in the doorway, his hands wringing worriedly.

"You can not speak, you're making me want to drown myself in the bog." She muttered. Anderson nodded for a second, then looked at her offended. Grunting he turned and walked away in a huff. John paused, just staring at the girl for a moment and thought  _what could I do to help?_  He never fully understood the genius types, Sherlock included. How was he supposed to help a new one?

"I'm not seeing anything you can't do," He said at last. "You've got the murder weapon from a murder the police hadn't even know was a murder," He replied. "I'd say you're doing pretty well." She looked up at him after a few moments of silence, her eyes puffy and red from crying.

"I'm a fake," She sniffled. John felt the familiar confusion and sadness he'd felt with Sherlock 5 months earlier as he stood on the ground, Sherlock on the edge of the building above him. Here was this girl, one he knew for a few hours who had shown him all of the magnificence he'd witnessed everyday with Sherlock. He opened his mouth to protest when she began talking again. "I strut the city with fake confidence," She sniffled again. "Like a switch I flicker on and off. Up here," She pointed to her head. "Everyone walks around, observing everything in detail while I black out everything and walk a single path. People see everything around them while I see darkness and everything labeled as dangerous." She looked up at him, her head shaking. "But God do I try so hard to impress that..." She ran her fingers through her hair, looking back down at the light on her phone.

"God I make myself seem like an asshole. But Sally...she...she terrifies me." Her voice wavered, breaking. "Not physically, but her thoughts. Your thoughts, everyone's thoughts." She shook her head. "I don't even know half of the stuff I say because my brain shuts down when I'm out of the house. It's just me and my work because if I let myself dwell on the people around me their thoughts will drive me insane!" She buried her face in her hand, her eyes closing tightly as a fresh batch of tears rushed down her cheeks. "Oh God that probably sounds insane in itself."

John gave another long bout of silence, just processing everything she'd said. There didn't seem too much he could do, or even say at that moment that could help...not in this setting. He needed to get her calm again.

He'd only known her for a little while, but he'd foolishly thrown his faith in her, connecting to her like a parasite because of her similarities she shared with his former flatmate. It hurt to see her like this. It hurt to hear what she was saying, to know that she had the same problems, no, worse problems to deal with than the rest of anyone. She was intelligent, she was clever, she was high spirited...but she was miserable.

"Natalie, hey, um..." He paused, still kneeling beside her. "Why don't...we go home and you can calm down. We can talk in a more comfortable setting. Drink some tea, get you cleaned up because I...have been touching you and it is probably driving you nuts." He looked her over, taking his hands off of her. "Would that help?" He licked his lips, cocking his head to the side a bit. Swallowing, she took a deep breath and sat up.

"I think...that's a great idea, John." She muttered, clearing her throat, putting her feet back on the floor. "It's...right time I stop being ridiculous." She closed her eyes, although she still sounded hurt. She took a few deep breaths, to get herself collected, muttering to herself "You can finish your tantrum at home." Standing she turned and looked at him. "I'm...I'm sorry this happened," She apologized, a look of insecurity on her face. "I promise I'll try harder in the future to keep this from interfering with our work." Leaning down she carefully grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet.

John took her hands gratefully, leaning on his good leg to stand and took her arm. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure once you've settled in, things will get easier." He gave her a small smile, just a quirk of the lips, but it was real at least. He lead her from the bathroom and down the hall and out the front door, hailing a taxi. He hoped that they could get this out of the way, he wasn't sure if she'd be able to handle this case in the state that was in.


End file.
